They are here in the middle of nowhere and at the end of time. An gathering of senior citizen skydivers bent on breaking a record. They are all shapes and sizes and all old; sixty and up and eager to hone their skills against the protests of arthritic backs and fading memories. There is as much metal as mettle in this group. The stories in the bar are as likely to involve artificial hips and knees as lost friends and close calls.

Are we there yet?

Eloy, Arizona is a tiny cluster of homes and small shops dotting the desert between Phoenix and Tucson. The only significant landmark is an alien structure adjacent to the Skydive Arizona drop zone: a vertical wind tunnel that provides the thrill of free-fall without the risk. People come here from around the world to jump out of airplanes. Of all the languages heard, the one that everyone speaks is skydiving. A fleet of aircraft worthy of a small airline sits on the outskirts of a tiny town within a town comprised of modest lodgings, a restaurant serving simple food, a bar with bargain beer and shops and lofts offering services and products that keep jumpers jumping and safe.

There’s even a swimming pool.

The Skydive Arizona owners spend a small fortune to maintain the grass landing areas fighting for survival under an Arizona sun that sets early to bring on the chill of a desert night. In February, the walk to breakfast is across parking lot ponds covered in thin ice. By mid-afternoon a T-Shirt feels like an overcoat.

February 13, 2012. At a Skills Camp to be held over the next two days, thirty or so members of the groups called Skydivers Over Sixty and Jumpers Over Seventy will learn, re-learn and refine the techniques of big-way-formations. They will acquire and try to demonstrate skills that enable them to jump from one or more airplanes and join together in the air. Then, over the following three days the Jumpers Over Seventy will try to break the current formation record of fourteen people set a short time ago in Florida. Twenty-two jumpers aspire to the goal. Fifteen of them will achieve it on the final jump of the last day.

Day one.

Class is comprised of men and women with stories to tell. They are a walking history of harrowing and heroic military action and civilian misadventures who become putty in the hands of their coach. He is Jeff Jones; flown in from his digs in the south of France to help mark a milestone in the Midwest. Jeff is both mentor and man on a mission. Breaking records is a skydiver’s dream. But it is Jeff’s job. His logbook is filled with milestone jumps. His legacy is in every big-way record ever set and soon to be set. The largest formation to date is four-hundred. The new target is five-hundred. Jeff’s stamp will be all over it.

Jeff’s teaching style allows no middle ground. He is generous in his praise and comic in his criticism. His energy fuels every climb to altitude, with all on board the stubby Skyvan eager to play a starring role at the next video debrief.

Things change.

There are layers of meaning in what many might see as a meaningless endeavour as jumpers meeting for the first time embrace their fellow skydivers as life-long friends. Some have travelled a long way to share a goal and risk their lives with strangers. Scotland, England, Australia, Canada and several states including Hawaii are represented. Yet for all of the fellowship this can be a lonely place to be.

In team sport, the other players exist only to let each individual player stand out.The goalie who logs a shut-out is the game’s only real star, despite all the group hugs that follow the final countdown to victory. This is less evident in skydiving, where playing your part to perfection is a guarantee of anonymity. To stand out you must first screw up. Skydiving is not kind to those who let down the team. And of course, it is all recorded on multiple cameras.

With the Skills Camp over and the record attempts underway, camaraderie succumbs to competence. Forget an off day: an off jump will send you packing not your parachute, but your luggage for the trip home. As attempt after attempt fails, the numbers dwindle. Endless video replays single out those who are consistently falling short or worse, falling low and beneath the formation.

One by one, errant record aspirants are called to the principal’s office for a talk. Each flight of the Short Skyvan is a little lighter and those aboard under heavier pressure to perform. On the last jump of the final day, a bunch of really tired old guys break the standing record by one, and the glory shifts for a short time at least from East to the West.

Now there are other planes to catch, the ones that will take the record-holders and rejects home to congratulations and consolations. As I leave Skydive Arizona, a pair of friends who have travelled from England together contemplate a long flight home and liquid conversation briefly defined by “should haves” and “could haves.”

But mostly the talk will be of “next time.”

Next time will be in late April at another drop zone in the desert when Skydive Elsinore hosts an attempt to build a formation of sixty jumpers over sixty. If Jeff Jone’s genius can contribute to producing the magic number, he’ll have played a key part in setting a record that could stand for some time. Which is not to say that he will rest on his laurels for long.

With the average jumper’s age increasing every year, the first hundred person formation comprised entirely of centarians is only a matter of time.